


A Grief That Can't Be Spoken

by AgentBuzzkill



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 16:40:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4632489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentBuzzkill/pseuds/AgentBuzzkill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you return to the wreckage of the Mother of Invention, it is many years later and you are alone.</p><p>A scenario in which Wash returns to finally grieve the loss of his friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Grief That Can't Be Spoken

**Author's Note:**

> So you can all thank Mitch (yorknut.tumblr.com) for sending me this text:
> 
> "Pro. Tip. Don't. Do not listen to empty chairs at empty tables and think of David/Agent Washington"
> 
> And of course I did. And then I wrote this.
> 
> Title taken from the song. Even if you haven't seen the musical Les Miserables (and you should, go watch it now) just listen to that song and think of Wash and you'll probably cry just like I did.

The wreckage of the Mother of Invention stands before you, looming and silent. It carries with it the strangest air of reverence, as if it were a great temple or a towering cathedral, regal and terrifying. The icy wind whips around you, and you know if your helmet was off it would be tossing your hair in your face. Blonde, shot through with grey. You’re not surprised at how quickly you seem to have aged. After all you’ve been through, it’s a miracle you’re still able to stand here.

The frozen climate has almost preserved it in the years that it’s been lying abandoned. In any other place you would expect it to be rusting away, vines to be climbing the walls, Mother Nature reclaiming the space that the hulking ship had invaded and destroyed. But instead of sinking back into the earth the ship remains a dark mass sitting on top of the snow. Snow covers it of course, a white sheet dusting the top of the ship, and you assume measures were taken during its construction to prevent deterioration. It appears as if no time has passed at all.

The last time you were here you were found stumbling out of the ship, calling for friends who were long gone. As you walk up the ramp to the docking bay you remain silent. You know now that there is nobody to call for, nobody to hear you. Their ghosts have no reason to return. You’re not sure now why you bothered to make the journey. Carolina told you it would be pointless, that there was nothing there to retrieve after it was gutted by the UNSC. But you don’t want data, the information that was once here holds no interest to you.

You want closure. You want to grieve.

Between everything that happened to you after the fall of Freelancer, you realize you never got a chance to properly mourn. Part of you think it might be too late, a vicious part of you says that their souls have moved on, that they left without knowing how much you truly miss them.

But it’s worth a shot, you think. Perhaps you can put your own thoughts to rest.

Your steps are heavy and hollow, echoing off the walls as you walk through the hallways of the ship. It’s dark, you realize, and it surprises you. Of course it makes sense, the electricity in the ship hasn’t worked in years. But it’s still eerie, seeing the hallways in natural light. In some rooms the windows are missing glass, and snow has blown in, piles of it adorning the walls or furniture. Other hallways are windowless, and your flashlight acts as your only guide. 

It’s clear that the UNSC got in and got out as soon as possible. Some rooms are entirely looted, all of the essential tech pulled out, leaving the walls with gaping metal holes. Wires spill out of some, others are much cleaner, more precise, signaling tech that was meant to be kept and not simply destroyed. 

The memories are hard to bear, even harder to resist sinking down into as you come upon familiar areas. Some are easier, and perhaps that has to do with the state of the room. The classroom looks completely different, the desks they sat at gone and the screen they’d eyed so carefully as the Counselor lectured at them smashed. There isn’t any loss in any rooms like this. It’s almost satisfying to see the screens that had displayed the leaderboard destroyed.

But other rooms are harder. 

The locker room looks trashed, and you wonder what happened there to cause a locker to get ripped out of the ground and thrown across the room. Some of the lockers had burst open in the crash and personal items are scattered everywhere. You recognize a pair of glasses and socks, little tubs of hair gel and pictures that still have tape stuck to them. You accidentally kick a bottle of pink hair dye and it skitters across the tiled floor, giving a dull thud as it makes contact with a nearby wall.

_“Hey, Wash, I know you’re a bottle blonde. Think you can help me with this?”_

The practice room is vast and dark, equipment scattered haphazardly around the room. Most of the weapons that could do any kind of damage are gone, but a set of dull practice knives still remains.

_“No no, your stance is all off. Here, adjust that arm. Keep that shoulder relaxed. You’re gonna get pretty good at this. Not as good as me, of course. There, see? Isn’t that better?”_

It’s easy to look at the infirmary and see yourself there, to remember waking up to the horror that you were incredibly, utterly alone. The pain of that abandonment still twists inside you sometimes, coiled and vicious and ready to lash out at the first possible threat. But the first time you were in there on someone else’s behalf was the first time you’d ever truly felt terror. The blood had stood out against the white armor, the knowledge that he would never speak again keeping you from saying anything at all. But his eyes still begged to know. You’d seen those eyes change over time, you’d watched the light fade from them until he wasn’t the person he used to be. But in that moment he knew who you were and he truly cared.

_Are you okay?_

As you walk down the corridor containing their bedrooms, you don’t go in. It would feel too much like disturbing a grave, digging around in their drawers and looking for secrets that they left behind. There’s nothing in those rooms that’s meant for you, especially in the ones you were never invited into.

_“If I catch you in my room at any time, I bloody well know how to make your death look like an accident. Got it, rookie?”_

You come upon the mess hall and it almost looks unchanged. You realize they’d bolted down the tables and benches, leaving everything unmoved even after the crash. It’s easy to sit down and your usual table and picture them there, together as usual, talking as if it were just another day.

  
_“No, why would you ever read anything on paper? That’s ridiculous.”_

_“I’m just saying, it’s a much simpler way to-“_

_“No, hush. Wash is coming, he’ll settle this. We’re having a bit of a debate, Wash. You gonna join us?”_

_“I’m clearly right. You’ll side with the winner, right Wash?”_

You’ve missed them for so long. You miss their voices, the sound of their laughter, the press of their hands on you. They weren’t your first loves but they were your greatest, your strongest. They taught you about strength and courage and kindness, they were your mentors and lovers and companions. Most important, though, was that they were your best friends. And in that moment, sitting in your usual spot, you miss them more than ever. You miss them so much it hurts, the deep familiar ache of it stings in your stomach, and you have to pull your helmet off to cover your face with your hands and cry.

You hadn’t allowed yourself to feel anything as you stood over them, as you pronounced them dead, as you blew up their bodies. They deserved a proper grave, you know that. They deserved a eulogy and a burial and two headstones side by side in a lovely, sunny place, in a place that would always be beautiful. 

Above all, they deserved to live. 

You don’t know why you’re the one left. They would have been stronger, you’re sure of it. They would have carried the ghosts of the past with dignity, as Carolina does. They wouldn’t be sitting in an old ship, more exhausted than they’ve ever been, sobbing so hard their throats hurt and their sides ache. 

The sobs steadily grow quiet, the grief subsides. It will come back as it always does, you know this. The grief is like a tide, being pulled back before it crashes into you again when you least expect it. You’ll ride out each wave. You’ll pick yourself up and carry on and try to keep your head high. You have to, for them.

You have a new team to be strong for. New friends. Not as strong as the old ones. Not as smart. But they’re kinder. They’re gentler. They’re more forgiving and just as brave, when they want to be.

You stand shakily, pulling your helmet back on. It’s time to leave, you know this. Nothing is left here for you, you don’t know if anything ever was. 

You hear them still, as you make your way back to daylight. Their voices fill the darkness.

_Think you can help me with this?_  
_Isn’t that better?_  
_Are you okay?_  
_Got it, rookie?  
_ _You gonna join us?  
_ _You’ll side with the winner, right Wash?_

The voices fade away, the ghosts of the past locked away in that abandoned ship as you step out into the light, into the snow. 


End file.
